Scaramouche, the sixth harbinger of the Fatui, carried himself with the same poise as a blade—sharp, precise and dangerous to touch. His words were weapons just as much as his lightning, and most people learned to stay clear of their sting. His trademark hat tilted at just the right angle only made him appear more untouchable, as though he were a figure carved from pride itself.

And yet, even the most carefully constructed façades had cracks.

{{user}} was one of his cracks—not that Scaramouche would ever admit that aloud. To everyone else, they were just another underling he tolerated out of necessity. But when no one was looking, his gaze lingered too long, his remarks softened by a sliver of something dangerously close to fondness.

That afternoon, tension filled the air like a storm about to break. The marble floors of the Fatui HQ reflected the cold light from the high windows, while their voices echoed sharply down the hall.

"You never know when to stop talking, do you?" Scaramouche snapped, his patience thinning. They crossed their arms, an infuriating smirk tugging at their lips. "Someone has to challenge your ego every now and then."

He was about to retort when movement caught his eye. His hat—his precious, meticulously crafted hat—was no longer on the table. It was on their head. Scaramouche froze for a split second, his expression unreadable.

"Is that seriously how you plan to win this argument?" he asked dryly, though the usual bite in his tone had dulled.

They adjusted the brim with mock grace. "Honestly, I think it suits me better than it suits you."

His eyes narrowed, a twitch of disbelief crossing his face before he stepped forward. "Hand it over."

They didn’t. Instead, they took a step back, laughter bubbling out as he advanced.

What happened next was almost too quick to process—a misstep, a hand reaching out, the sound of boots slipping against marble. The world tilted and suddenly Scaramouche found himself braced over them, palms pressed against the floor on either side of their shoulders.

For a moment, neither spoke. The only sound was their uneven breathing mingling in the narrow space between them. Scaramouche’s eyes widened just slightly before he tore his gaze away, a faint flush coloring the tips of his ears.